Chapter Eight

 

He hadn’t died. Noah awoke the next morning in his stall in McMurdo’s Wagon Yard and felt almost proud of himself.

He’d tuned, oiled, and repaired Susan Blackworth’s piano, and even inspected her neglected reed organ, and he still lived. He’d tested the organ’s stops and reeds and suggested what she needed to order from Estey’s Organ Works in Brattleboro, Vermont, and had managed to remain there the whole time. He hadn’t blown up, broken down, screamed, cried, or run away. Not once.

Not that there hadn’t been plenty of shaky moments, but he’d endured them. He’d even managed to hide the trembling of his hands from the sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued Mrs. Blackworth. At least, he thought he had.

Was that a step in the right direction? Noah wasn’t sure. It would help if he knew what the right direction was.

With a heavy sigh, he thrust his bedroll aside and was immediately enveloped in a blanket of icy cold. Damn, he might have to start wearing both parts of his long johns to bed. Ever since the war, he’d worn as little as possible at night because the terrors got him when he felt confined, especially when his intellect was dulled with sleep. But Lordy, when it got this cold, he supposed even his demons could use a little warmth. He looked into the sky and saw that it was a bright, brittle blue, with clouds like snowdrifts piled up at its edges. He breathed the frigid air and felt satisfied. How odd.

“I hope you’ll join us for breakfast, Mr. Partridge.”

Shit. Noah jerked his head around, embarrassed that he’d been caught staring into the sky. There she was: Grace Richardson, looking like a winter angel, with her muffler wrapped around her neck, buttoned into her long gray coat, and holding a bucket. She gave him a smile as warm as the day was cold, and his sex stirred to life. Glory, this had to stop.

“I’ve been milking Betsy,” she said with a laugh. “I’m surprised I didn’t get ice-cream out of her this morning.”

He had to force himself to do it, but he smiled back. Recalling his near-naked state, he yanked a blanket over his chest. Damn, he wished he’d stop having these inconvenient physical reactions to Grace Richardson. He was hard as a rock. He didn’t need to be reminded that he used to be a man. Life was difficult enough without knowing he was unfit ever to bed a woman again.

“Thanks,” he said, surprising himself. “That’d be nice.”

She took a few steps closer to him, holding the bucket in both hands. He saw that she wore those same woolen mittens she’d had on when they made the snowman, and that they’d been darned a lot. “I really wish you’d sleep inside, Mr. Partridge. We all worry about you sleeping out here in the freezing cold.”

“I like the cold, ma’am.” It was the truth, but he was shocked to hear himself say it out loud. Telling the truth often provoked questions from others that he didn’t care to answer.

“Really?” She tilted her head to one side, as if she were trying to understand. “Why is that, do you suppose?”

He knew why it was. Mac’s suggestion that he tell Grace the truth filtered into his head, but he thrust it away again. He couldn’t do that. Not yet, anyway. “Um, I reckon I had some bad experiences in the hot weather, ma’am.”

Her head tilted the other way. She reminded Noah of a pretty, decorative bird. Except Grace Richardson was more than merely decorative.

“I’m from Chicago myself,” she said. “We had some hard winters, and some awfully hot and humid summers back there. I’m not sure which I like better. I like them both, I guess, although I think I like fall the best, when the leaves begin to turn. Not that we have any trees to turn colors out here” She laughed softly. Noah thought he detected a measure of regret in her voice.

“No, ma’am.” Her gentle laugh cut through him like a knife. He had a quick, impossible urge to rush off and find her a maple tree or something. He really was crazy.

She gave him another smile and turned to walk back to the house. “I fixed some buckwheat cakes for breakfast, Mr. Partridge. I don’t know how he managed it, but Mac found some real maple syrup for the hotcakes. Better come in before we gobble them all down.”

With a friendly wave, she was off. Noah watched until she’d entered the house before he shoved the covers down, dressed before he could freeze solid, took care of Fargo, and went to take breakfast with Grace Richardson. And Mac. And Maddie.

Lord, if he didn’t watch himself, he’d begin to like this sort of thing, and then what would become of him?

# # #

Grace wished Noah Partridge would stop glancing at her and then jerking his head down again. He made her nervous, doing that. She couldn’t tell if he was trying to get up his courage to ask her a question or stab her in the back.

Maddie asked him questions about music all through breakfast. He grunted monosyllabic responses for the most part, although he didn’t appear to be impatient or bored. He mainly looked nervous.

Mac lifted his coffee cup and watched them all, his bright blue eyes glittering like sapphires. Grace got the feeling he was presiding over a drama of his own making. That made her nervous, too.

When her daughter paused in her chattering to drink her milk, Grace decided to take the bull by the horns and initiate a conversation of her own. “So, Mr. Partridge, how did you learn to play the piano so beautifully? You must have taken lessons for a long time.”

His head whipped around so fast, Grace was afraid he’d hurt his neck. “My grandfather,” he said, and swallowed. He took a deep breath, as if trying to get his galloping nerves under control. “My grandfather taught me, ma’am. He taught my sister and brother and me when we were just youngsters. The whole family played.” He shrugged. It seemed to Grace as if he were apologizing for something. “It was our business, you see.”

She smiled, hoping her smile conveyed what she couldn’t say aloud: That he was safe here, that no one would hurt him, that he could relax his guard and allow whatever emotional bruises he carried around with him to heal here, in Rio Hondo. She admonished herself not to be ridiculous. How could she know if he needed to heal? She didn’t even know him. “My great-aunt Myrtle taught me to play. She was such a sweet old dear, and she always smelled of lavender and powder.”

She thought Noah’s lips might have twitched, but she couldn’t be certain. He might have been offering her a smile of his own; it was difficult to tell with him.

“Mommy used to play the organ in church, Mr. Noah,” Maddie said in her cheery way.

This time Noah did smile. It lasted perhaps a hundredth of a second, but Grace saw it, and it made her heart ache with pity.

“Did she? I used to play the organ in church myself.”

Maddie’s eyes held wonder. “The same church?”

Mac and Grace laughed. Noah’s smile lasted a fraction of a second longer than his prior one.

“No, Miss Maddie. My family lived in Falls Church, Virginia. I think your mama is from Chicago.” He lifted a brow and glanced in Grace’s direction.

She nodded and turned to her daughter. “That’s right, sweetheart. Falls Church and Chicago are in two different states.” And on two different sides of the great war that had just been fought. She wondered if Noah didn’t like her because of it. Yet he didn’t seem hostile exactly; only remote.

Maddie looked confused. Grace was pretty sure she wasn’t clear on what a state was. “You see, Maddie, all of us live on a big continent. Part of that continent is called the United States.”

“I know that.” She looked at her mother with scorn. “I seen the globe in Mac’s back room lots of times.”

Noah grinned again. Grace smiled too. “That’s right, you have. Why don’t we study the globe after breakfast, and I’ll show you where Virginia and Illinois are?”

Maddie brightened. “All right!” She loved playing with Mac’s globe, and it gave Grace an opportunity to impart geography lessons without Maddie knowing she was learning anything. Sometimes Grace wondered why more schools didn’t teach their students in a like manner. Maddie could already read quite well because she and Grace made up stories together. It was easy to teach reading and writing when a child had a stake in the results. It must be admitted, however, that Grace wasn’t sure how to impart arithmetic and make it seem like a game. Every time they tried counting antelopes, the herd would scatter and leave Grace confused and Maddie frustrated. She sighed.

“Anything the matter, ma’am?”

She tried not to show how much Noah’s question had surprised her, but wasn’t sure how well she’d succeeded. She wasn’t accustomed to his being aware of her moods. “No, not really. I was just thinking about how nice it would be to have a real school and a real church out here in Rio Hondo.”

Noah nodded, but Grace didn’t detect much agreement in the gesture. It looked more like he was signaling his understanding of her wishes. “I get the feeling you aren’t as eager for civilization to set down roots here as I am, Mr. Partridge.” She gave him a big smile to let him know she didn’t think badly of him for it.

He looked away anyway, as though he wasn’t pleased to have had his thoughts read accurately. “I, uh, like my privacy, I reckon.”

“I can understand that.” She’d said that by rote. She didn’t really understand at all. Sometimes when she and Frank first moved to the territory, she used to think she’d go mad if she couldn’t find another woman to talk to from time to time. She settled for Susan Blackworth, because there was no one else around.

Maddie tugged on her sleeve, and she smiled at her. “Yes, Maddie?”

“What’s privacy, Mommy?”

Mac chuckled. Grace saw him twinkling and could tell he was eagerly awaiting her answer.

“Privacy is being left alone, Maddie. Not butting in when a person wants to be quiet by himself.” Maddie would understand that part. So as not to make Noah seem like an oddity, she added, “Or herself. Some folks like to be alone more than others.” She often wished she was one of them.

After contemplating her mother’s explanation for a moment, Maddie peered at Noah, a little frown creasing her babyish brow. “Don’t you like people, Mr. Noah?”

Mac chuckled again.

“I, uh, I—” Noah’s uneasiness was plain.

“Don’t pester Mr. Partridge, Maddie,” Grace said gently. “He’s a man who likes his privacy.” She smiled at Noah to let him know she wasn’t being merely sarcastic, but was attempting to help him.

“I’m not pestering him!” Maddie sounded indignant. “I’m just cur’yus, is all.”

“Aye, lass, how’s a wee bairn to learn these things unless folks explain ‘em to her, eh?” He winked at Grace, then turned to Noah. “So, tell us: Don’t you like people, Noah lad?”

The two men’s gazes locked for a moment. Grace felt tension fly between them like electricity, and it startled her.

Noah broke the moment first. “Sure.” The word was harsh, clipped. He threw his head back and gulped in a breath of air. “Sure, I like people just fine.”

Mac winked at Grace again and turned to Maddie. “The lad’s only out of practice, Maddie lass. He’ll get the hang of socializing one of these days.”

“Yeah,” said Noah, rising so quickly his chair bumped on the floor. “Yeah, that’s right.” He almost ran for the door, grabbing his hat from the rack before he stopped short and turned around. “Fine breakfast, Mrs. Richardson. Best I’ve eaten in years. Thanks.”

And he fled. Grace stared after him with her mouth hanging open.

Maddie tilted her head. “Mr. Noah looks scared, Mommy. How come?”

Grace blinked at her daughter, then peeked at Mac, who grinned at her like a fox. Whole lot of help that was. “I, er, don’t know, sweetheart.”

Maddie said, “Hmmm.”

Mac heaved an enormous sigh.

# # #

What a fool. What a blazing damned fool he was. Noah’s heart thundered like a stampede of wild bulls, he couldn’t catch his breath, and his chest was so tight he could hardly stay upright, and his intestines were cramping as if his demons had taken hot tongs to them.

He didn’t stop running, however, until he’d made it to the fence. There he doubled over for a minute, clutching his sides, until he was pretty sure he wouldn’t pass out. He straightened slowly once his insides stopped hurting and his brain quit screaming. Then he took in several huge breaths of ice-cold air, hooked his arms on the top fence rail, and looked out into what he had begun to think of as his last hope on earth: The vast, empty, barren plains that stretched out beyond the tiny village of Rio Hondo forever and ever.

“Amen.”

The words and music of Handel’s famous chorus echoed in his head like a litany. He whispered them to himself, and they calmed him after a while. He noticed his fingers were moving, as if he were still sitting at Susan Blackworth’s piano.

He used to play “The Hallelujah Chorus” on the pipe organ in church on Christmas Eve while the choir sang. When he was a boy, that service was probably the one he most looked forward to during the year. It had seemed to take eons before he was good enough that his father, who was the choir director, allowed Noah to play along with the choir. Noah remembered it well. He’d only been thirteen, and the congregation had been amazed and called him a prodigy. They’d even applauded, breaking into the silence that had echoed through the sanctuary when the last dramatic chords faded into the rafters. It had been his proudest moment.

“Shit.” Noah considered it a pathetic commentary on his life that its shining moment had occurred when he was thirteen years old.

No one in the congregation would even give him the time of day if they saw him now. He’d lost the respect of his fellow townsfolk, broken his parents’ hearts, and alienated himself from his home forever when he’d joined the Union Army instead of the Confederacy.

He’d believed he was acting upon his high ideals and firm moral principles when he’d determined to fight the good fight to eliminate the institution of slavery. Of course, his own family didn’t own any slaves; they built and repaired pianos and organs for a living. What did they care about plantation owners whose businesses would suffer if slavery was abolished? Not that Noah condoned slavery for that reason; it’s only that he understood today what he couldn’t understand in his youth: that folks fought change, no matter how good the cause engendered by it, especially if it hit them in the pocketbook.

What a mortal dunce he’d been. Still was. The only thing his high-minded moral principles had earned him was the hatred of everyone he’d ever cared about. That and a stint in the foulest prison camp the world had ever known.

Andersonville.

He’d been—what?—nineteen when he’d joined up? Nineteen years old. What did a nineteen-year-old boy know about anything? He’d been twenty when he was captured, and he’d spent the next three years in prison, the last of that a year in the hell that was Andersonville. He was only twenty-seven today, but he felt like an old man. Looked like one too. He felt older than Mac, older than time, older than the ground he stood upon.

In spite of the frigid weather, sweat crawled down Noah’s back. He lowered his head until it rested on his folded arms, and fought tears.

Would he never be whole again? Never? What was the use of living if he had to live like this, with his demons running him?

He was out of practice. Everyone kept telling him that. Yeah, Noah was out of practice, all right. And no matter how much he tried, he didn’t get any better. His father had told him that practice made perfect. Well, his dad had been right about music. Life was another matter entirely.

“Mr. Partridge?”

Shit! Noah whirled around, saw Grace Richardson standing there, and almost swore aloud.

Calm down, he ordered his frenzied nerves. Calm down. This is the woman whose good will you need to earn if you ever expect her to sell you her land.

He sucked in a deep, freezing breath. It was so cold it made his lungs ache, and he fastened on the pain to distract himself from his unholy terrors. “Mrs. Richardson.”

He willed himself to stand still and not run away. He’d already made an ass of himself in front of this woman once today. He didn’t want to seal the impression in her mind that he was a lunatic, whether it was true or not.

Remember, he commanded himself. You need her. You need her. You need her. With those three words reverberating in his head like the Hallelujah Chorus, Noah forced his lips into a grimace he hoped looked like a smile.

# # #

Good heavens, what could the matter be with the poor man? Was he mad? Grace didn’t sense violence in Noah Partridge, at least not violence directed outward. His eyes looked wild, but he was trying to smile, trying to pretend he was all right. Grace recalled her uncle Henry, and felt a terrible sense of sorrow gnaw at her. This man reminded her so much of Uncle Henry. It had taken Henry ages to get over the horrors he’d been through in the war.

“Is everything all right, Mr. Partridge? I’m sorry Maddie pestered you and chased you off this morning.”“Um, she didn’t chase me off, ma’am.”

“No?” Grace gave him a smile she hoped would convey her sympathy for his distress, even if she didn’t truly understand what had caused it.

He shook his head and opened his mouth, but closed it again before he said anything else.

Take it slowly and gently, she cautioned herself. She didn’t want to interfere, but she felt a compulsion to help this man if she could. Mac had told her he was troubled; Grace thought that was putting it mildly.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Partridge?”

His eyebrows lifted. “Ma’am?”

Blast. Grace chided herself for being maladroit. She’d meant to be subtle. “I mean—” Oh, dear. She was so unused to subterfuge. She heaved an enormous sigh and decided yet again that she couldn’t be anything but herself. “I mean, you seem so—so edgy. So restless. Nervous. If there’s anything Maddie or Mac or I can do to help you to feel more at ease during your stay with us, we’d be more than happy to do it.”

Good Lord, what if he was a vicious criminal on the run from the law? The startling thought frightened Grace for a split-second. Then she remembered the magic he’s wrought with his fingers on Susan Blackworth’s piano and took herself to task. She knew good and well that just because the man was talented didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t a black-hearted scoundrel, but it did tend to mitigate her fears. Besides, she trusted Mac implicitly, and Mac said Mr. Partridge was all right under his veneer of standoffishness and tension.

He uttered a short, humorless laugh. “You can sell me your land, ma’am. That’s about all I can think of offhand that might help me.”

Grace’s lips tightened. “Anything other than that.” The words came out tartly, and she regretted her tone. But she was annoyed that he’d turned her words against her when she’d been trying to offer him a measure of relief from his distress. “That land is all I have left of my late husband, Mr. Partridge. I’m sure you can understand what it means to me.”

She felt like squirming under his penetrating gaze. Words bubbled up inside her; words she felt she needed in order to defend her position on the matter of her land. She almost gave into the compulsion to say them until she recalled that she had no need to defend herself. That land was hers. Frank had bought it fair and square, and as long as she kept up the payments and taxes—admittedly a difficult prospect and one in which she was rather behind—it would remain hers. She needed no justification for wanting to keep what was already hers.

“Yes, ma’am. I reckon I understand.”

He turned and gazed over the fence again, out into the empty plains. It seemed to Grace that he was doing his level best to thwart her good intentions to ease his worries. Was she being presumptuous? Probably. She huffed out a breath that billowed like whipped cream in the frosty air.

“Listen, Mr. Partridge, I don’t know what’s wrong with you. Maybe nothing is and you’re merely a solitary, nervous sort of person, but please know that neither Maddie nor I would ever intentionally do anything to make you feel uncomfortable. Rio Hondo is—is a strange place. It’s not like anywhere I’ve ever lived. Mac claims there’s magic out here. I wouldn’t know about that, but I do know that it’s a lonely, isolated place and the people who live here need each other. I’d like to be your friend if you’d let me.”

He muttered something Grace didn’t catch. She decided not to let him off the hook. “I beg your pardon?”

For perhaps ten seconds Noah didn’t move. Then he turned around so abruptly, Grace gave a start. “Mrs. Richardson, I know you’re trying to be nice, but you don’t know what you’re saying. Hell, you don’t know me. You might not want me for a friend if you did.”

Annoyed, Grace snapped, “I believe you’re being deliberately perverse, Mr. Partridge.”

Noah shook his head. He looked about as frustrated as she felt. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, ma’am, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”

Grace had never had so much trouble communicating with a person before. Even Uncle Henry had at least tried to appear normal. Oh, he’d been fidgety and as jumpy as a frightened cat. Loud noises had sent him into paroxysms of shivers and shakes, but when he was with the family, he’d at least tried.

“If you’ll give me a chance, maybe I’ll learn. I only want to help you.”

“Dammit, Mrs. Richardson, there’s only one way you can help me, and that’s by selling me your land. I don’t need any other help!”

“Oh, you’re impossible!”

Stymied, Grace stared at Noah and stewed for several seconds, wondering if she should stand her ground and fight for his understanding or give up. It was unpleasant to have one’s good intentions thrown back into one’s face, especially when one was only offering friendship and a measure of compassion. She’d give anything to have more friends. It got intolerably lonely out here on the fringes of the frontier, where companionship was a luxury. But he was a tough nut to crack, was Noah Partridge. This morning Grace didn’t have the energy to spare for him.

“Oh, never mind!” She whirled around, intending to stump back to the house, and almost bumped smack into Mac.

“Mac!” She drew herself up short before she could run over him.

His smile was as benevolent and friendly as ever. Her heart registered appreciation, and she opened her mouth to greet him.

# # #

From the house, Alexander McMurdo had seen Grace and Noah at the fence. He shook his head. They were going at it, those two, and Mac could tell they were getting nowhere fast. Grace had no idea how much and what kind of damage Noah had sustained in the war. As for Noah himself, he was sure he was ruined forever and had given up on ever being whole again.

They definitely needed his help. Leaving little Maddie sleeping a magical sleep replete with happy dreams, he hastened outside to take care of things.

Grace almost bowled him down, but he lifted his hand, and she froze in mid-stride. Noah froze too, with an expression of anguish on his face, as if he wished he could do something to stop Grace from running away from him but didn’t have the wherewithal to do it.

It was a useful tool, freezing people so he could work on them, although Mac used it sparingly. He was one of the ancients, and knew that most problems experienced by the human race worked themselves out—or didn’t—in the natural course of things. Every now and then, as in the case of Noah Partridge and Grace Richardson, he liked to take a hand.

They were both good people, Noah and Grace. Mac loved them. They needed each other, too, as much as Maddie needed the two of them together.

Poor old Noah’s inner workings were really kinked up, however, and his condition was getting in the way of the healing process Mac had begun. He needed more help than Grace did. Grace was still grieving for her lost Frank, but she was a basically sound woman. Noah needed work, and fast.

Very gently, Mac lifted Noah’s hat from his head and waved his hand slowly over his head three or four times. Nothing fancy needed here; he didn’t bother with a wand or any of the other dramatic trappings of his wizardry. Mac had graduated from needing the instruments of his discipline centuries before.

Sparkles like glittering dust particles filled the air, bathing Noah in shifting, shimmering light. Carefully, making sure he didn’t skip an inch of the man, Mac dusted Noah with his healing magic. He paid particular attention to Noah’s heart and his head, the two areas most severely damaged by years of hardship and bitter abandonment.

Mac’s eyes filled with tears when Noah’s memories became his. “Ah, ye poor lad,” he whispered. “The things folks do to each other are mortal sad and hellish. But we’ll get ye well again, lad. You just see if we don’t.”

It took a long time to finish with Noah. It would take longer yet, but Mac was willing to work with him for as long as need remained.

Then he turned his attention to Grace. “Ye’re a fine woman, Grace Richardson, but ‘tis time to put your grief aside and let this poor man into your heart. Ye need each other, lass, and Maddie needs ye both.”

Grace required much less time than Noah had. When Mac was through with her, he snapped his fingers and vanished into the house.

Noah blinked into the bright, harsh sunlight. He had an odd sensation in his chest, as if someone had lit a fire and thawed it out. He didn’t want Grace to leave him.

Grace, feeling oddly as if she’d stumbled over a moment in time, caught herself before she could take another step. She turned around. “Oh, Mr. Partridge, I’m so sorry.”

“No, ma’am. I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

He looked impossibly uncomfortable. Grace’s conscience smote her. “No. I have no business prying into your business. You obviously need solitude. I didn’t mean to meddle.”

“I, ah, guess I do need a lot of time alone, ma’am, but I don’t necessarily like it.”

Grace cocked her head, puzzled. She saw him lick his lips.

“I mean, I—I haven’t been quite right since the war, to tell the truth, ma’am. I, ah, had some pretty bad times.”

She nodded, her heart flooding with tenderness. “My uncle Henry went through some terrible times, Mr. Partridge. I understand.” She shook her head, annoyed with herself. “That is, I don’t understand at all, because I’ve never been through anything so terrible, but I know how war can affect some men, because I’ve seen the results.”

“It’s hard for me to talk about it, Mrs. Richardson.” He took an audible breath and looked away. “That is, I—haven’t been able to talk about it yet. But that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate your offer of friendship.”

Grace was astonished when he smiled. He had such a beautiful smile, and he looked ever so much less forbidding when he smiled. She had a mad desire to see Noah Partridge as he might have been before the war got to him; to see him as a man who smiled as easily and as freely as he played the piano. She said, “Thank you,” and wondered why.

“Um, if you’re willing to put up with my moods and—and my craziness, ma’am, maybe you and Maddie would like to go for a drive one of these days. Maybe we can take a picnic or something out by one of the rivers.”

He looked disconcerted, as though his offer had surprised him as much as it astonished Grace. “I mean, not alone or anything. We can all go. Mac too. When the weather’s better and all.” His words stuttered to a stop and he blushed. Grace could hardly believe her eyes.

How sweet. She smiled at him. “That would be lovely, Mr. Partridge. Maddie and I would both enjoy it. Thank you.”

He nodded, and she got the impression he didn’t know what to say now. This was silly. He couldn’t remain outside on a day like this.

“Mr. Partridge, it’s very cold today. Won’t you come into the house? You don’t have to talk to anyone. I’ll be giving Maddie her lessons, and Mac is always busy in the store. There are lots of books in there, and it’s warm. Won’t you join us?”

He hesitated for several moments. Grace was surprised that his apprehension didn’t annoy her. She reached out her hand and laid it gently on his arm. He looked down at it. Grace got the feeling he wished he dared touch her. She almost wished the same thing.

At last he said, “Thanks. I’d like that.”

They walked back to the house side by side, closer together than either one of them probably realized. Even their steps were synchronized. Mac, watching them, grinned and blew a series of smoke rings into the air. His touch remained sure. This was getting good.

He planned to make sure the weather was fine for a picnic very soon. He had one more trick up his sleeve before that, though. He looked forward to it.